


Spring

by ikeracity



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Introspection, post dofp canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 07:39:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1680179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikeracity/pseuds/ikeracity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quick glance into Charles' thoughts the day after the fiasco at the White House. DOFP spoilers of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spring

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what this is but at least I wrote _something_ right? It's been way too long. 
> 
> Thank you to betty as always for tirelessly cheerleading.

The mansion was as silent and familiar as ever when they returned home. It looked untouched and unchanged, and for a brief moment, Charles thought he might have dreamed the last few days, or maybe hallucinated them in some bizarre, lucid fantasy. But then Hank set him down in the foyer by the stairs and said quietly, “I’ll get your chair,” and he was conscious all over again of the cold numbness in his legs and the harsh throbbing of an unbearable headache behind his eyes. The bleeding in his forehead had mostly stopped, but still he held a handkerchief to it, glad for the pain that distracted him. He didn’t want to think about what had happened only hours earlier. He would have to at some point, and soon, if they wanted to get ahead of the consequences that would surely result from what they had done at the White House, but now he was bone-weary and aching and stretched thin. He wanted to lie down and sleep until this was all over.

Hank returned momentarily with an old wheelchair. He had dozens of them in his lab, designed and tested and discarded when a better idea struck him. They hadn’t touched any of them since Hank had fully developed the serum but now…well.

With Hank’s help, he settled stiffly into the chair, gritting his teeth when his ribs protested the movement. Hank saw the grimace and, after a moment of hesitation, slipped his hand into his pocket.

“I don’t know if you wanted…”

Charles looked down at the syringe in his hand. For a second he imagined it: the sting of the needle in his vein, the press of the plunger, the slow trembling relief of silence. His hand twitched toward Hank’s, desperate, craving.

He said hoarsely, “No, thank you. And when you have the time, can you please collect all the serum from my room and lock it away. Put it somewhere I can’t reach.”

Relief softened Hank’s eyes and flattened the pinched corners of his mouth. “Yes, of course. After we get you stitched up.”

“Right.”

The infirmary was downstairs on the basement level. Hank had been the one to suggest it (“All these kids running around with powers—someone’s bound to get hurt”), and after Charles had agreed, he’d worked up an inventory list of what they’d need to stock a medical ward in case of emergency. They had used the room only twice when the school was operational and never again after that. The layer of dust that covered the counters and cabinets when they entered the room was stifling.

“So,” Hank said, arming himself with pads of gauze, “what now?”

“Now…we go to bed and sleep.” Charles rubbed at his eyes and blinked as dried blood flaked off on his hand. “I think we could both use some rest.”

“Logan…”

“Yes. If he’s alive, we’ll find him.” They hadn’t seen where Logan had fallen and with the police presence and their own exhaustion, they hadn’t been able to stay long to search for themselves. There had been law enforcement and soldiers crawling everywhere, and since they couldn’t have predicted exactly what the human reaction would be to mutants after the White House shit show, Charles had made the executive decision to retreat to New York. They’d have to find Logan later, if they could.

“And…” Hank turned to riffle through the open first aid kit on the table. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter. “What about Raven?”

Raven. God. He had let her walk away. She had walked away and…and…

And what? He couldn’t have stopped her. He knew better than that now. Whatever happened now, he had said, was in her hands, and he had meant it. He still meant it.

“Raven can take care of herself,” he said with an effort. Saying that aloud felt as if he was releasing the last, tenuous hold he still had on her, but in truth, she had been free of him a long time ago. It had just taken him an age to realize it.

Hank was silent for a moment, his shoulders rigid as he paused, his hand braced against the table. Realization dawned on Charles slowly, like an unwilling sun on the horizon: Hank loved her. Still loved her, even after all this time, even if only a little bit. And Charles, bitter as he had been, absorbed in his own problems as he had been, had missed it, just as he had missed the truth about Erik’s imprisonment, just as he had missed the reality of Trask’s experiments. What else, he wondered, angry with himself, had he missed in his years of self-indulgence? What else had he been blind to?

“Turn toward the light please,” Hank said finally as he snapped gloves on. “Let me look at your head.”

After he stitched Charles’ forehead and examined his ribs (probably bruised, luckily, not broken), Charles looked him over in turn and bandaged a cut on his arm and another on his shoulder. As Hank packed up the medical supplies, Charles said, “Before you go to bed, can you find me a spare set of sheets and a pillow? I…” His mouth twisted. “I’ll be taking one of the downstairs bedrooms.”

“I wouldn’t mind carrying you,” Hank said gently.

“No, please. I’ll be fine.”

The look in Hank’s eyes was dubious but he nodded. “Alright.”

They took the small elevator up to the first level and parted ways in the foyer. Charles wheeled himself down the hallway and opened the first room on the left. The door creaked loudly as it swung open, and inside, dusty old linen coverings shrouded the furniture. He sat in the doorway for a minute or two, his eyes roving restlessly over the darkening room. Empty and lifeless, like the rest of the mansion had been for years. He felt like a ghost in his own home.

“Charles?”

He turned his head and found Hank behind him, a pillow atop a neatly-folded stack of bedding in his arms. “Oh yes, thank you. Would you mind…?”

As Hank made up the bed, Charles sat by the baseboard and studied him. It was hard to see in him the boy that Charles had first met at the CIA base so long ago. Outwardly, he appeared mostly the same: ten years had aged him very little, and he dressed as he had when they’d met. But he walked with new confidence now—or, more accurately, old confidence that he had earned and won after Cuba and after the school had bled teachers and students, when he had had to shoulder more responsibility than he should have. Here was another boy Charles had failed, in more ways than one. The guilt ached in his chest under his heart, like a festering sickness.

“There you go,” Hank said, stepping back once he’d smoothed down the bedspread. “Should I help you up?”

The bed was, thankfully, low enough that Charles thought he could probably lever himself into it. “No, I think I’ll be fine.”

“Alright.” Hank gave him half a smile. “Goodnight.”

As he turned for the door, Charles called, “Hank?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.” He met Hank’s eyes and held them, wanting him to feel the sincerity in his words. “For everything you’ve done, all these years. I never thanked you, and I should have.”

Hank’s smile was real this time, and gentle at the corners. “You don’t have to thank me, Charles,” he said, his hand on the doorknob. “You’re my friend.”

Charles swallowed past the lump that rose in his throat. “Goodnight.”

When the door was shut, he pushed himself over to the side of the bed and, with some awkward maneuvering, pulled himself up into it. It had been years since he’d had to do this, so the effort it took was draining. He had little energy left in him as it was after the day they’d had, and by the time he was settled against the headboard, he was panting and trying to ignore the painful draw of breath against his bruised ribs. A minute’s rest slowed his pulse, and he leaned forward to arrange his legs more comfortably under the covers before lying down.

Exhaustion dragged on him like an anchor, but still, lying in the darkness with his eyes closed, he couldn’t sleep. Even now, after all these years, his traitorous mind turned to Erik.

Erik, who had tried to kill Raven. Erik, who had seized the Sentinels and tried to kill Logan and Hank, and might have killed Charles, too, if he had spotted Charles at all in the rubble. Erik, who had announced mutantkind’s presence to the world, who had stripped away any cover they might have had and robbed them of time to think, to plan, to strategize.

Erik, who had carried a chessboard over to him on the plane as a peace offering from a man who never extended an olive branch to anybody. Erik, who had apologized for the beach in Cuba years ago with an honesty that had hurt more than the bullet to his back. Erik, who had touched Charles’ hand just briefly after he had tipped his king in defeat and had said under his breath, “I missed this.”

His eyes stung. He opened them and let a ragged breath whistle out through his teeth. It felt like Cuba all over again. They had pulled back from the brink of destruction, but Erik was gone and so was Raven. He was alone again.

But…he had Hank. This time, he had Logan’s memories of what the school could one day become, and while that vision lay fresh in his mind, he could hardly sit idle. Raven, he had made his peace with. He could no longer cling to her like he had clung for so many years, wasting his time trying to control a girl who had never truly been his. Wherever she was, he trusted she could take care of herself. It wasn’t his responsibility any longer, if indeed it had ever been.

And Erik…Erik, he would have to bury, because they had said their goodbyes and there was nothing more now to be said. Erik was an old grief he had pushed away once already. He could do it again, and he would.

Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow he would sit down with Hank and they would find Logan, if he was out there to be found. They would see about digging up the school’s old permit and renewing it. He would visit Cerebro and he would practice reaching out until he could do it again without shaking, without feeling as if his head were about to shatter apart. Then, when they were ready, they would find teachers and students, and together they would build the school he had seen in Logan’s mind.

Tomorrow, they would begin again.


End file.
